Staying the Night
by nancystagerat
Summary: Right now, with the smell of vanilla shampoo in her still-damp hair swirling in his head and the DVD menu music growing increasingly irritating in the background , Tony knew this would be the opportune moment to get the hell out. Early-mid season 7 Tiva.


**_A/N: This still feels to me like it could do with some more work, but if I don't get it off my computer now I will NEVER write my ten-page Philosophy paper due on Monday. That being said, I own nothing and just wanted to mess with Tony and Ziva a little, which turned into messing with them for rather longer than was prudent for my grades. Hope it doesn't feel too unfinished to the rest of you!_**

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**Staying the Night**

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That first night his ringtone had split the two AM air like a gunshot, the last thing Tony had been expecting the evening before a much-needed day off. He'd slapped his hand on the side table, fumbled, cursed once, expecting McGee's voice on the other end with an order from Gibbs on his lips. He didn't bother with the caller ID.

"What do you want, McAlarm Clock?" he answered, rubbing one eye with the heel of his hand, with a long-suffering sigh all geared-up and coming down the pipes. Orders or not, he could still shoot the messenger as long as the messenger was McGee.

"Tony."

That guilt-tripping sigh had choked on its way to the receiver, and he was up and grabbing his keys before he had the time to apologize.

"What do you need, Ziva?"

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He came over almost every night since that first phone call, these past three or so months. He'd sit with Ziva on her couch, in her bare-as-bones apartment, until she fell asleep. Sometimes he'd bring a movie, sometimes they'd talk about trivial things, and sometimes she would say nothing at all and Tony would just sit with her in silence, waiting for her to lean her face into her hands and ease further into the corner of the sofa. Then, once he was sure his stirring wouldn't jar her, he'd quietly collect his phone and his keys and would drive himself back to his apartment.

And tonight, when Tony wrenched his eyes away from _The Departed_ long enough to catch a glimpse of Ziva, it appeared to be nearing that time again. Her eyes had glazed over a while ago, and she'd drawn her legs up beside her on the couch; clear signs she was starting to drift, as he knew well by now. Months of this had taught him that she never did, and probably never would, pay much attention to his movies. He brought them for background noise, really, to keep the silences that often stretched between them from reaching into awkward territory.

He stretched his arm behind her across the back of the couch, only for once it was less for putting the schoolboy moves on a woman than it was to keep it from losing circulation if Ziva leaned against him in her sleep. As she'd done more than once by now, and the painful reminder of that particular, rather prickly, drive home was not something Tony hoped to repeat.

The movie reclaimed his attention quickly enough, and he glanced down at the clock on the DVD player every so often to gauge how much time he'd been there. It couldn't be that much longer before she'd be out like the proverbial light bulb, and he'd whip out his stealth agent skills to get back downstairs to his car. _Without_ earning him any half-asleep projectiles whizzing past his head. As had been the case one night towards the beginning of their strange little routine, before he'd realized how lightly Ziva slept.

It was only a quarter of an hour later when he felt her begin to stir beside him, and soon she'd scooted far enough over to fit herself beneath his arm. Ziva pillowed her cheek on his shoulder, and sleepily brought one arm to sit across his waist. Tony sat still for a few minutes, eyes on her face, reading her before he figured it safe enough to get a bit more comfortable. Move too soon, with her hands very close to some of the more vulnerable bits of anatomy, and…he wasn't too keen on finishing that thought.

By his estimation, he had a couple more minutes left before she'd be out enough to extricate himself, and Tony figured he could deal with the DVD menu music for a little while longer. Ziva shifted against him, nuzzled her face against the fabric of his shirt. The arm about his waist moved as well, settling her hand on his chest. He felt heat where her palm touched him.

God, she was close.

He slid his arm down from the back of the couch, gently not to wake her, and rested it across her back. His fingers tightened on her shoulder. Drew her just the slightest bit closer. It felt…nice.

Right now, with the smell of vanilla shampoo in her still-damp hair swirling in his head (and the menu music growing increasingly irritating in the background), Tony knew this would be the opportune time to _get the hell out_. There was no way in all of God's green earth that they could stay like this. Something would ruin it. He didn't know what, but something would wake her and make all of that perfect ease he felt come crashing down around his ears. The thought of forsaking _this_ for his car sitting parked outside didn't look the least bit inviting, not against the backdrop of the comfortable weight of her head against his shoulder, the smell of her hair. But the thought of the consequences that would be waiting for him in the morning if he stayed…

He didn't know.

Tony wasn't really sure why he left her every night. By now it'd been so long he hardly thought about it, the nightly drive to Ziva's place and then back just a part of the routine. The practical part of him knew he'd sleep better at home, that it'd be easier to get himself set for work in the morning. The perverted part of him realized the connotations of "sleep better at home," i.e., without the very closeness of her to distract his sorely deprived body from her purely platonic need for company. But the perverted part seemed easier and easier to kick to the side lately, as impossible as that seemed even for him.

The rest of him wondered if he left every night because he didn't think he could face her in the morning. Tony could see it now, the regret etched into her eyes when she woke beside him on her couch, when she realized she'd let her guard down so far. He was all too familiar with the walls and wards Ziva threw around herself that would shut him out. He could see them clear as day, hardening behind her irises, and every time he'd have to look away.

He felt a shiver run through her body and she shifted again, this time to press herself closer to his side. Her shoulder felt cold under his fingers. Tony brushed her damp hair off of her neck, threaded his fingers through it at her nape.

It wasn't a trust thing on her part, that much he knew. Out of everyone else on the team, everyone who _hadn't_ shot her lover ten--by now almost eleven--months prior, Ziva had called _him_. She'd drifted off on his shoulder on more than one evening, even let him carry her to bed once before he'd noticed she wasn't fully asleep. He'd never tried that again, needless to say, though Ziva had never mentioned it since. She trusted him more than he'd ever expected her to trust him ever again, given the circumstances, let alone so soon.

But then again, maybe it wasn't Ziva at all who kept him from spending the night on her couch. Maybe he wouldn't know what to do if he stayed and she wanted him there, wouldn't trust himself not to do anything stupid. Maybe he wouldn't trust her to understand when he did. It'd been so long that by now it was only a matter of time until he'd say something callous, no matter how many times Gibbs drilled him that nothing was inevitable. He was still Tony DiNozzo, and Tony DiNozzo still couldn't regulate his brain-to-mouth filter as much as it often seemed necessary. At least, he'd never been able to control his big mouth around Ziva on a _good_ day. He didn't want to entertain the thought of what stupid things might come out in a morning-after situation.

Not that he used "morning-after" in his –_ahem_– usual context. He couldn't even really call it the "usual" context anymore.

It'd been so long since he'd _had_ a morning-after.

But he wasn't about to restart _that_ bus tonight. Tony ran his thumb in slow strokes through the soft hair at the base of her neck, felt her adjust in her sleep to allow him the touch. One of her spaghetti straps slid down the shoulder he'd held. There was too much here, all wrapped up in warmth and the scent of vanilla shampoo, too much he couldn't bear to lose a second time. They had a routine that worked again, as miraculous as that was after…everything. Things that weren't broken, or as whole as they could be given the circumstances, didn't need fixing. She was out like a light, and he should leave.

Tony stretched beneath her, extended the kinks from his knees, and lifted the arm he'd held her with to reach for his keys on the side table.

"Don't move."

He tried to ease away, put that small protective distance back between them. A buffer. Anything. So he tried that smile and uneasy laugh that used to work with her. The one that always used to get him a curve to her lips; condescending, provocative, or otherwise.

"Zi-?"

"I _said_," she murmured, motionless, eyes still closed, "Don't. Move."

"Zee," he said, trying the reasoning tone this time, "I've gotta—"

She pushed herself off him just so far, supported on the hand she'd left braced against his chest. Heat pulsed beneath her palm. Groggily, her dark eyes opened halfway. Met his for just a second before she turned her head.

"You could…stay," she said, pushed herself away until she could yawn and stretch, and Tony pulled back to avoid her arm connecting with his face. Slowly she rose to her feet. "If you would like."

His eyes narrowed, following the line of her back down past her purple striped shorts to those gorgeous toned legs he always stared at when he thought she wouldn't notice. Watched her bare feet pad towards the door to her bedroom. She glanced once over her shoulder; dark eyes spoke volumes in a language he couldn't understand.

"Coming?"

A long pause grew between them and she stopped when she reached the doorway, one hand on the frame.

"Which side is yours?" he asked.

A smile turned up one corner of her mouth before she shook her hair forward, hiding it. She took a long time to answer. At least, a few seconds felt like a long time to Tony.

"Left."

"Good," Tony smiled slightly, eyes never leaving her back. "I like the right."

Ziva disappeared around the doorframe to her bedroom, and Tony pushed himself off the couch, pressed the TV's off button with his foot, and followed her. By the time he walked in, she'd already turned down the covers on her side of the bed and sat waiting on the edge.

"Well?" she asked.

"Well, what?"

Ziva sighed impatiently. "Are you getting in, or shall I throw a blanket over the couch?"

"I was waiting for _you_."

"You are the guest," she threw back, raising her head in the least bit of defiance.

"It's your apartment." He answered too quickly, and it sounded like _that_ kind of answer. The kind that always made you sound like you were avoiding something. And he was _definitely_ not avoiding the chance to sleep beside Ziva. It was all the baggage that came with it he was avoiding.

And with that, Ziva let out an exasperated huff and fell backwards into the pillows, a soft _pff_ sound rising when her back hit the mattress. "You are insufferable."

"And _you_ are bullishly stubborn." Tony smirked, hands behind his head, making a huge show of getting comfortable without actually ever getting comfortable. It was decidedly _un_comfortable, to be truthful, but rather than take up more space than he was welcome, he opted to wait for her to move first. Instead, Tony stared at the ceiling to keep from having to watch her roll her eyes. He'd seen that look from her far too often, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know what the rest of her reaction might be. So he felt rather than saw her turn onto her side, facing away from him, and curl in on herself.

"You are on top of my blankets," she said.

"I'm hot."

"Oh, _are_ you?"

Tony turned to look at her, finally, eyebrows knit together. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Her answer was slow, sleepy; more statement than question. "Wouldn't you like to know."

He turned away again, loath to try to weasel more than that out of her tonight. That can of worms was better left for another time. Preferably not on Ziva's territory. And not while sharing a bed. _Especially_ not while sharing her bed.

So he returned to staring at the ceiling. After a while her breaths began to lengthen, and Tony waited a few minutes more just to be sure she was sleeping this time before he moved. He rolled onto his side facing her, propped up on one elbow. He

He meant just to check if Ziva was far enough asleep, he really did. He meant to sneak back out, leave her comfortable and rested and avoid any awkward _good morning_'s when she woke. Instead his eyes followed the messy fan of her damp hair across the pillow, over one bare shoulder, to her hand tucked up under her face. It was rare he'd get the chance to observe her, really pay attention to the nuances and details that kept her so familiar and so far away. He'd never noticed before the way her hair dried in wispy little curls before her ears, or that she had a peppering of tiny freckles across the backs of her shoulders. The freckles were mostly hidden by the scars.

Those scars and the ghosts of bruises he remembered crisscrossing her back and arms and legs had all but faded by now. Ziva had hidden them from him in the early nights of their little routine, swathed herself in long pajama pants and oversized sweatshirts each night before he'd driven over. Tony had never even caught a glimpse of the marks Somalia had left on her until more than a month after their nightly pattern began. And even then it wasn't until weeks later, when she'd forsaken the NCIS sweatshirt for a cream tank top, that he'd realized how horrifying those injuries had been.

Tony had only ever been able to see the scars from her nape to just beneath her shoulder blades, the camisole top she slept in taking care of hiding the rest. By now he wasn't sure if he ever wanted to see the rest. But God, that first night she'd slept in spaghetti straps, those scars made him sick to his stomach.

It'd been one of their more difficult nights if Tony remembered correctly. Which he did. He remembered the shock, the shiny healing lines and welts of old wounds that tore her back to ribbons, and that Ziva had been mostly silent. She'd probably expected some sort of reaction from him. He, on the other hand, had been busy trying to _hide_ his reaction and keep the successive waves of bile from rising in his throat. He'd even gotten up to make them tea at one point, to get out from under her eyes long enough to control the rage he'd had a hell of a time hiding. It took him more time to pry his fingers off the counter he'd grasped, white-knuckled, to beat back the surges of acid in his throat, than to actually make the tea.

Of course Ziva had noticed he'd spent much longer in the kitchen than was necessary, but pretended not to. Would've fooled him, too, if her knuckles hadn't been just as white on the arm of the couch when he finally brought back their tea.

Lying beside her now, Tony had to resist the urge to follow one of the widest scars with his fingers, from where it began between her neck and shoulder to where it disappeared beneath her shirt. He could only imagine how much a gash like that had bled. His mind had brought him there time after time.

He'd seen Ziva's wounds first on _her_ terms, when all that was left were the healing pink scars trailing paths through her skin, the sick yellow shadows that lurked where bruises had once been. She no longer wore the agony of Somalia like brands all over her body. The marks the desert left didn't own her anymore; her pride had taken care of that. And by his reasoning (she would never tell him, of course, and he was smart enough not to ask), she would remember Somalia less for the torture of her captors, but more because she had failed. And that her failure had brought everything, all the unspeakable pain she'd endured, upon herself.

Mossad didn't make mistakes. Their sharp end of the spear had dulled, and Mossad had left her to die.

Those scars weren't visible signs of weakness or of failure anymore, Tony was fairly sure about that. Why else would she have stopped hiding them after so long? The outward marks were disappearing, but it was the inner ones that kept her calling him night after night. And those were the reasons that kept _him_ driving over here night after night. Not necessarily the reasons he was staying over now, but at least they were why he'd driven over.

What Ziva's inner wounds were, he didn't know. He'd probably never know. But those were the ones he worried about.

She looked fragile, shaded by the darkness in the room. Fragile and cold, curled into herself with her arms tucked close. And much smaller than she seemed in the odd moments he'd watch her in the bullpen. Like the dip of her waist where it led down to her hip and how perfectly he imagined his hand might fit there. Or how she'd fit beneath his arm earlier while she'd dozed beside him on the couch.

She never _had_ gotten pull the covers up with him on top of them, had she? Rationalizations chased themselves in Tony's head; if he'd let her yank the sheets up before, he wouldn't be looking at her like this now and having these thoughts about what she'd felt like earlier, what she would feel like now if he just reached out a few inches. So he shifted to pull the blankets from beneath him and free himself of her influence when he felt Ziva curl in tighter to herself, clutch the pillow closer to her face. Rather than wake her (and suffer the consequences), he settled for watching, and leaned his weight back onto his elbow.

The time to leave had passed oh, what was it now? The digital clock on the alarm read 3:17. He should've been gone two hours ago, at the latest. The sleepy Ziva danger zone had apparently passed, judging by the regular length of her breathing, and Tony was entering the thick of Gibbs-slap territory if he was too tired in the morning to keep his head off his desk. Maybe if he got lucky, he'd be up before her and be able to put those stealth agent skills to good use and sneak out to the car. Then he'd at least get a few minutes to doze at his desk before everyone else came in.

Tony continued to stare at the alarm, eyes unfocusing as the thoughts behind them scrambled to come up with a back-up plan should his stealth attempt fail. Instead he failed to notice Ziva searching for his hand until she'd grabbed it and pulled his arm around her. He shook the surprise off long enough to whisper, "Cold?"

Tony felt her sigh this time, and almost missed the words that followed the rush of her breath. "Sleep better with…"

"What?"

"Just…go to sleep, Tony," she murmured, pulling his arm tighter around her. Her back pressed up against his chest, his hand rested on her stomach. Ziva laced their fingers together.

He gave her hand a quick squeeze. "As you wish."

"Hmm?"

"From _The Princess Bride_," he went on, "like Wesley always used to say to Buttercup after…" Ziva adjusted in his embrace, sliding down a few inches against him, "…you…have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

Tony could've sworn he felt his ego deflate a little with every movie reference lost on her. But, rather than let it frustrate him, as was his usual reaction, he made a mental note to bring _The Princess Bride _with him tomorrow night. Ziva would probably hate it, of course, what with the damsel-in-distress thing as the main plot device, but that didn't matter so much. He'd get a laugh out of it for sure. And_,_ he supposed, from the movie. Tony smiled.

"G'night, Zee."

He breathed in the scent of her hair, and didn't wait for his half-comatose synapses to tell him that this was _not_ a smart idea. But neither had been agreeing to stay the night in the first place. Ziva felt the chaste kiss he pressed to her shoulder. Tony knew this because she turned in his arms and rested her cheek where his collarbone met his shoulder.

His breath hitched in, just enough for him to hope she wouldn't notice and at the same time sure that thought was only wishful thinking. He held that breath for a beat longer than he should have.

If he was going to dig his grave, he might as well dig it deep.

Tony bent his head, rested his lips against forehead just for a second, almost thought better of it, then slowly nudged her nose with his own to better reach her face. He kissed her temple, but before he made it to her cheek like he'd meant to, she met his mouth with hers.

It felt different than he'd expected, not like the last time. She'd been someone else, then while they were undercover. Hell, she'd been someone else to him entirely, and had meant very little at the time. But kissing Ziva now, it wasn't earth-shattering. It didn't give him butterflies, or make him go weak at the knees that weren't holding his weight anyway. It just sort of…ached, if that was really the word for it. Different than kissing Jeanne had been, too. Jeanne had kissed easily, leisurely, but always with a hint of higher expectations hiding behind the softness. Ziva felt tentative, even as her mouth explored his with a sureness that belied her hesitance. She kissed with intent, but not force.

Then Ziva slipped her tongue between his lips and it gave him the sort of shivers he got when crunching on a mouthful of ice cubes. She made his teeth hurt. She felt like something familiar, something he'd missed. Like something that should have been there long before now.

She pulled back first, but didn't protest when he leaned in again for another, more innocent kiss. When it broke he smiled against her lips, rested their noses together. "I have to admit," Tony said, forcing his voice smooth to hide the spike in his heartbeat, "that wasn't entirely how I imagined it happening."

Ziva leaned her face away, and he saw the first layer of wards stiffening behind her irises.

No. _No, no, no_. Not now.

"I'm sorry," she said; he felt her hands stiffen where they braced against his chest. "I—I should not have."

His smile faded the slightest bit. _Pull her back, Tony, _the half-panicked wheels turned faster in his head. _Dig that grave a little deeper._

"Yeah, maybe." He stroked a few loose strands of hair from her face, held her cheek to make her meet his eyes. "But as long as I'm setting myself up for mockery…" he leaned his head back, a long, showy sigh of faux submission alleviating some of the tension. Cover. He needed cover. It was too soon for all these admissions at once. He tried levity; levity usually helped.

"Your way is much nicer than my way, I'll give you that. My mental picture always started with you, yelling explosively at me, in top Ziva form, of course. When I'd _finally_ just haul off, _grab_ you by the shoulders, and…"

Ziva intercepted his kiss with her hand, hiding the cautious interest Tony could see behind it. She knew he was making light of things, didn't she? Of course she knew. Who was he trying to kid?

"And you have…imagined this often?" she asked.

There it was. The question he didn't want to answer. If he said yes, she'd kick his ass for being a shameless lecher. If he said no, she'd make sure he'd be kicking _himself_ for it later, and _then_ she'd kick his ass.

"Once. Or twice. Every other day."

She raised her eyebrows. He gave up.

"All the time."

Ziva opened her mouth and hesitated. Tony could see the words hanging there on her tongue and thought he just might die of suspense before she finished with a rather anticlimactic "Oh."

"That's it?" he said.

She met his stare and blinked, looked away. Carefully blank everywhere but her eyes. "What would you like me to say?"

"Oh, I don't know," he leaned his head back, forced out the heavy breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "How about, 'well, Tony, that's flattering,' or 'I think about your handsome ass sometimes, too,' or 'what the hell is the matter with you, you creepy, creepy man,' or..." He sighed, looking at her without really _looking_. "I don't know, throw me a bone, here."

She was silent.

And then Tony sighed again, really sighed, like the weight of the world was crushing all the air out of him and it _hurt_. Not like pain-hurt, but more like anxiety boiling so hard in his stomach it felt like it was trying to digest itself.

"Look, Ziva. It's not like I've admitted undying love to you or anything tonight…"

"Tony, stop."

"No, Zee." He smoothed her hair back to busy his hands. "I had to…to think about a lot of things when we didn't hear from you—" She stiffened in his arms and Tony slid one hand from her face down to her back, holding her to him. "And all I'm asking is that you don't shut me down right now."

Her fingertips ran over his chest as she clenched and unclenched her hands, over and over, nails grazing him gently. "Go on."

How was it that they interacted, watched, touched each other so easily at work, teased and taunted and flirted so brazenly under the scrutiny of Leroy Jethro Gibbs, and then acted _this_ pathetically shy with only each other? It would drive him mad someday soon.

_Someday_ meaning _tomorrow_, if this ended badly.

"God…" Tony searched for delicate words. "There were so many scenarios we played out while you were gone. You could've been happy, miserable, alone, alive…" he exhaled, "…or all kinds of dead." He ran his thumb over her cheek once, twice. He didn't want to get into the myriad of ways he'd thought she'd died; it was terrifying how much he'd imagined in those eight months.

"We thought you were a whole _rainbow_ of dead, McGee and me—"

Ziva tilted her eyebrows downward in an expression he couldn't quite place, but as long as he was being honest, he might as well go on. Another deep breath.

"Especially me. Mostly me."

Her fingers grasped his shirt.

"Only me," he finished, "forget McGee." And when she was silent, he scrambled to fill the gap.

"Not that I'm belittling Probie, he was just as concerned as the rest of us, it's just—that, you know, he wasn't _your_ partner, and…"

"Tony."

Ziva leaned up and stilled his lips with hers. She leaned into him and Tony responded in kind, one hand pressed to the small of her back (because he'd be damned if he was going to share this bed with her for the rest of the night after all this and _not_ pull her as close as physically possible), and the other laced through the vanilla scented waves of her hair. They _did_ fit together well. Not as well as he'd imagined

She didn't need to tell him she understood. Some things were just better left to silence. He pulled away and kissed her again for emphasis, feeling her smile against his mouth, but she turned in his arms before he could see it on her face. Fine, there were other accessible places on her he could kiss, and Tony took full advantage of this, peppering the curve of her neck with them.

"We have work tomorrow." Ziva squirmed against him to disengage his tickling lips.

"Your point?" He wanted to run his tongue from her neck up to the soft spot behind her ear, but thought better of it. Too much, too soon. He needed to do this right with her.

The are-you-kidding look she threw him over her shoulder was so animated and so very Ziva he laughed, hoping she would feel it resonate. Tony wanted to memorize that feeling.

"The point is, _go to sleep_."

He kissed her shoulder again. "Can't." She heaved a long-suffering sigh. "You distract me."

"_Do_ I?" Ziva met his next kiss as he leaned over her shoulder, and bit his lip. Hard enough to hurt. Tony pulled back like he'd been burned, and Ziva laughed while he eased the bite with his tongue. She kissed him to soothe it away again. "Go to sleep."


End file.
